


Magnanimity

by Fallowfield



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, Chemical: A Moicy Fanzine, F/F, Moicy Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 22:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallowfield/pseuds/Fallowfield
Summary: Moira is always one step ahead of Angela.





	Magnanimity

**Author's Note:**

> This was my work for Chemical: A Moicy Fan Zine! I hope you enjoy.

You can do so much damage with one hand. I think the taste grows bitter when you see the other hand give relief. It’s jarring. It’s almost a betrayal. The softest touch, but with a small turn of the shoulder, a sharp sting, almost out of nowhere.

You treat every situation with this philosophy, this strange counterbalance of powers. You’re simultaneously incredible and terrible at first impressions. A great sense of competent yet unhinged nature flows from you, twisting together and hitting the observer with a great force. If anything, you are so memorable. But both the best gifts and the worst blights are memorable.

I’d never particularly liked being the only expert in my area. When I spoke, I was met with all my ideas reflected back at me, as if I were alone, speaking to myself in the mirror. My work was always something in which I liked to bury myself, only looking up at the clock when the entire day had passed without a thought. However, it was always hard to do because I felt so isolated, even when surrounded by associates. They would tell me I needed to get out more, to leave the lab for once. But the more I left my lab the more alienated I felt, as if I were inhabiting someone else’s body. People would speak to me, but I didn’t feel any connection.

My situation began to change after you arrived, with a dramatic flourish, like a masked hero. While others groaned at your assertive attitude, I almost had to hide the strength of my intrigue, how I perked up at the sound of your voice. Your expertise was quite different than mine, Moira, but at least it aligned more than the astrophysics, the rocket science, or the programming skills of the others. Regardless, I had always attended their seminars and interrogated them to try to uncover a morsel of inspiration for my next project. The survival of Agent Shimada was an earthshattering success on my part, but to be honest, I’d felt more like his life support machine than the genius behind it, as most of his current troubleshooting was with his programming. I felt more like a consultant who ensured his compatibility to his equipment, as well as somewhat of his automated defibrillator. Sometimes attending interviews about my breakthrough made me feel like an imposter. You lovingly reminded me of the existence of Imposter Syndrome but I prefer to remind us that neither of us are psychologists. The others spoke of me as if I were a goddess of life, waving my wand to bestow immortality, ignoring the dry details of my daily work.

But Moira. To be honest with you, I’d followed your work for years. I’d even convinced Overwatch to purchase yet another journal subscription simply to allow me access to the notorious Dr. O’Deorain’s latest papers. The space beneath my mattress had never been reserved for my valuables, but a carefully kept journal of notes I kept on each of your projects, as well as folded printouts of the papers written in your lofty, and somewhat foreign, vocabulary. Something about this fixation made me hide it. Likely this impulse was due to the note of disdain that dripped into the others’ discussions, like how a drop of ink diffuses through water, or how a note rings slightly flat against the other instruments. This Dr. O’Deorain was not lifted to a status like mine, but rather a place somewhat underground, a narrow window looking out to ground level. The others painted a malicious glint in your eyes, blood under your nails. I never saw it. There was nothing objectively wrong with your work. It was inspired and exhilarating.

Interacting with you, even tangentially, felt like a clandestine operation, something I would switch from my screen if I felt someone enter my office, even if it was the driest daily work. You didn’t care to correct the rumors. It was like watching you repeatedly strike a match just to watch it burn out. A sudden flame, intense and hungry, but the potential was wasted, dying as quickly as it was born. You always were a master architect, building intricate patterns and arches, but the other scientists would simply walk under them without looking up at your genius, no matter how painstaking the details. Instead you’d absorb the power inherent to these claims. Something about that made every other colleague steer clear of you, but a magnetism held me suspended, even across a conference table. I was always gazing into one orange, one blue, so distinct, complementary but apart. You somehow always seemed to be amused when I watched you, like it was somehow private.

Then you’d immediately allow your construction to collapse with a huge clatter. You’d just shrug and walk away. Every time, I dove after it but would be too late, only to watch it crumble between my fingers. I could not understand why you were so flippant about it.

And admittedly, there was more to it. When you spoke to me, Moira, it wasn’t the distant formal diction the others used. I wasn’t miles high on my pedestal, shining too brightly to be looked at. Conversation topics could stray from strictly work. I was finally a peer. In fact, after introductions, the first words you said were “May I call you Angela?” Your gaze seemed to carry untold secrets, your voice smooth. I was taken aback, having assumed I was always to be the great Dr. Ziegler, as if my subjects were addressing me as I gazed down upon them, waving my sceptre. But I had blinked, still unaccustomed to those strange eyes, and said “Yes”, as if I were signing a contract. I had a flair of adrenaline, a reminder of teenage indiscretion, like we were going to wander the town all night looking for trouble. It was a feeling I thought I would never have again.

I remember how you just approached me and asked: “How do you do it, Ang?” Your voice was light but nauseating. By now, I wasn’t surprised when you appeared, even when I worked alone in my lab. I sighed, knowing you well enough to know you weren’t being innocuous.

I glared at you but didn’t stop adding media to the dishes in front of me. “Do what?”

“Keep such a…. _ wholesome _ profile.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Moira.” I sounded irritated, then turned to you with dull eyes. When you talk like this, the conversation usually leaves me exhausted.

“You know very well that my primary weakness lies in the area of….publicity. But you. You are so incredibly  _ skilled _ .”

I rolled my eyes. “I hardly do anything. Action is required to soil your reputation, not maintain it.”

“Hm.” You feigned deep thought, brow creased with debate, then softened and smirked knowingly. “How far are you willing to go?” You peeled off your gloves, then leaned close to me. Venom dripped from your voice. “Would you do that to me, Angela?”

I looked up again, scowling at you to try to hide the color that rushed to my face. Our eyes met. I was looking over abrupt cliffs with no sight of the ocean below, and my shuffling feet sent stones tumbling. Yet there was a siren song that drew me closer and closer to the edge.

“If death took me in the field, would you tear me from it? Would you wrest my eyes open? Would you ask me? Or would I just wake up, assembled anew?” 

I was in shock, my eyes the size of dinner plates. The dark water swirled below, almost welcoming. I had to set down my pipette, my vision spinning. A ghastly image flashed before me. The perpetual doubt, the guilt, ran its hands down my arms. I dropped my gaze. You were inches away. I bit my lip, but decided to hide my insecurity. You never feel ashamed like this, do you? It was a great advancement, even if it crossed some boundaries….caused a lot of pain. But I don’t want to discuss it, so I let the topic float back to the surface. I narrowed my eyes and raised my chin. “....What makes you think I’d save you?”

Your eyes glittered, laughing. I can’t forget them. After a moment, you tilted her head to the side, easing the intensity in that way you tease, as if you can shut it off any moment like a faucet. My face followed you, unable to escape, leaning closer.

“Heh.” You smirked, eyes creasing at the edges. “I wasn’t being nice to you.”

I frowned and shook my head rapidly, then grasped your tie. I yanked downward abruptly, then kissed you. I had to do something to remain in control. “Neither was I.”

Your smirk grew wider, and you remained bent to my level. You snickered and lowered your voice. “You must be ill, Dr. Ziegler.”

x-x-x-x-x

You even criticized me for my hesitation to dive into this.

You were upright, perched on the edge of the bed. Your long frame was bent over, examining the journal. Your other hand ran through your hair, but it kept tumbling back into the disorder sleep always gave it. Your face was a mixture of statuesque analysis, still and nearly stone, but also of amusement, light dancing in your eyes. I always remember that face as if it were a photograph. You smirked. “I felt a bump in the mattress. Thought I’d found your diary or something. But I was disappointed. It’s just….me?”

You caught me. Last night I was in no state to scan my room for what I’d like to better conceal. I froze. You frowned. “....And intersections between our projects.” I couldn’t tell the extent to which you were upset. But you looked up at me again, the amusement in your eyes growing darker. You raised your eyebrows. “Maybe this is more personal than I initially gathered.” You swung your long legs back up onto the bed. My heart raced. This page was more heavily marked, where I’d grown more passionate, wildly circling phrases. “You know, I had no idea you were interested. You never asked me about it.”

I winced and drew back. This particular article was met with great storm in the literature, though it was what left me the most intrigued, if with a sense of guilt. You at first thought my notes strange but completely innocuous, but I saw you frown as the realization came to you. “But you keep it hidden away….” Before I could move again, your face grew icy, eyes flat. “....Ah. Haven’t I learned anything, Glinda? I see. Well, remember, all you have to do is pour water on me.”

I could feel the color draining from my face, and I toyed with the sheets between my fingers. “It’s not that, Moira….”

You hid your face in your hand, chuckling, to my surprise. “There you go again.” Your laugh is always so infuriating.

“Excuse me?”

“Prioritizing how you make me feel over the truth.”

I scowled, struck too close to home. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You leaned your face against your hand, ignoring me and still smiling. “Right now I’m just a consulting scientist to Overwatch. Doesn’t that include you? Can’t you discuss projects with me?”

I could no longer hide it. I’m not sure why I ever thought I could. I wanted to show you I wasn’t misleading you. Maybe the preoccupations of Overwatch really were a hindrance to real science.

x-x-x-x-x

Now, that morning, you’d left the bed, so I imagined you’d gone to work early. But something rang as strange to me, even before I got up. I’m still unsure what it was. I only remember how oppressively peaceful it was. The windows were cracked open. There was a light breeze. No birdsong. You had set the coffee pot to warm. You forgot your lunch.

I checked my pager. It seemed strange. Everything was too quiet. Usually the clinic and labs had several questions that couldn’t wait until I came in. But I didn’t think much about it. I was so tired and wished for the dark of the night before. The energy. Electrified even to my fingertips. I rubbed my eyes and poured myself some of the coffee and perused the news. I even took the time to curl my hair before finally going to work. Something had to make up for how the concealer didn’t seem to do anything.

There was a crowd. It parted as I entered. Everyone stared at me, but when I returned their gaze, they looked down out of guilt. Or pity. Agents had been dispensed into the labs and we were made to wait outside.

Commander Morrison sensed my approach and turned to me. “I apologize, Dr. Ziegler. I know this must hinder your work significantly.” Reyes stood beside him, wordless, carved granite next to Morrison’s eroding sandstone.

I frowned and crossed my arms to conceal how my heart had stopped and crawled into the hollow of my throat. Nothing could hide how my face must have been paper white. “What’s going on?”

“There have been reports of unsanctioned research activity in your laboratory block. I’m certain none is attributable to you, but investigation was necessary.” His voice had grown dark. An I-told-you-so to somebody. “We’ll try to be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

I couldn’t have looked blameless. My mind was racing, paralyzed with confusion. My hands shook, even cached in the grooves of my arms. How far would they look? I had emails, files, notes, orders, materials. The allegations were true. Against my better judgment, my eyes searched for you.

You looked absolutely pristine in a thinly cut suit, hair slicked back. I’m not sure how you gathered the energy to dress so nicely after last night. I had taken forever just to look presentable. You did not look at me, though I know you could feel my stare burning into you, begging you to look my way. Every set of eyes were scrutinizing you, mine with an alarm and the others with disgust or contempt at various levels of concealment. Nevertheless, you carried yourself with such an air of serenity at which even my intense anxiety faltered. It was like you’d shut down every doubt with a simple rebuttal, but without parting your lips at all. I wish I could have seen your eyes. What I could see was carved of perfect marble, a huge contrast from the softness I’d seen just hours ago.

An agent stepped out and gestured to Commander Morrison, whose face relaxed in a strange mixture of relief and resentment. His suspicions were substantiated. Reyes’ expression did not change, but I could see the stitch in his brow grow deeper. The two of them glanced at each other, then approached me.

Morrison could not hide his fatigue. “Angela….” His eyes betrayed that repugnant pity. “We’re going to have to shut down lab procedures. You can go in, feed the animals, whatever you need to do to keep samples alive, but I’m afraid the usual business can’t occur again for awhile.”

I tried to speak, but I couldn’t form words. My fear dissolved into confusion. They seemed to have no doubt I was uninvolved, though I knew the evidence wouldn’t spare me. How could this be? You still wouldn’t look at me. By the time I could move at all, he’d already turned away, joined by Reyes. Several of the agents stood around you, looking to the commander, but he shook his head. You wordlessly turned and walked with them, hands clasped of your own accord.

I stood frozen in place for several minutes. What was going on? I wondered if I was dreaming. There was no logic to this at all. I stumbled into my office without switching on the light. There was the mug you left on my desk, a smudge of coffee grounds left in it. There was the orchid you gave me. “Still living,” you’d said, smirking. “It doesn’t suit you to have beauty slowly withering on your desk.”

I checked my inbox. I was sure I was dreaming. All the messages we’d sent, gone. I opened my hard drive. Several files were missing. I looked around. My notebook and binder, gone. The air in the office had been entirely sucked away. I couldn’t bear to look over at your desk, now with a pair of quiet agents studying your computer. Tears came to my eyes against my will.

I stalked into my lab space and opened the incubator, my stomach already burning through my body to the floor. All your cells, gone. The refrigerator. Everything, gone. The lab benches were cleared off. I remembered that just a couple days before we’d had the animals out, right here…. I had to place my hand on the cabinet as my legs gave out from under me, and I sank to the floor. When had you had the chance to do this?

I couldn’t believe it. The sharp taste of risk rotted on my tongue as my mouth grew dry. I had never taken it that seriously. I’d just wanted to let my hair down for a change, to play such an exciting game. But now I wanted to pound my fists against the bench. I’d been just like a stupid kid.

The lab aide, her eyes drenched with concern, kneeled beside me. I wanted to knock her backwards, but all I said was: “Feed the animals. Freeze the cells. I don’t know when they’ll let us back.”

She nodded, hesitant to leave me in that state, but finally stood and turned away. I wanted to lay on the ground and sob aloud, but as my body melted, I froze. I yanked myself upwards, pausing to regain my balance, then strode out of my lab and into yours.

To even a fresh observer, it would have been heavy-handed. Didn’t the detectives have any imagination? I remembered what Morrison had told me years before: “It’s usually the simplest explanation.” But did they think you were that oblivious? Hadn’t they thought, even through their disrespect, that you were a genius?

You didn’t even wash the glassware. The animals in question were in the cages you kept in your lab. The lab computer hadn’t even been shut down.

It took awhile for me to catch up, but they could hear me coming. I must have been stomping, clacking my heels against the ground. As I approached, the others faced me, but your head only jolted slightly in surprise, then a subtle smirk twisted onto the very edge of your face.

And there we were, the two of us, covered in blood, but their gazes were only withering towards you. They still saw my lab coat as pristine and white, even as I flinched at their scrutiny. When they looked at me, beyond the surprise I saw that pity, or at least a stubborn willful ignorance. 

The goddess they’d seen in me had lost her powers, even as they moved to protect me. Because they’d moved to protect me. I could not stand on a pillar, thunder crash and lightning strike, and order them to listen. My voice had been taken away.

I knew it would make no difference. Morrison spoke. “Angela….? What is it?” He exchanged an uncertain glance with Reyes. I knew they wanted me to stay as far away as possible.

I leveled my voice as best I could. “Just let me talk to her for a moment.” 

x-x-x-x-x

You always have me thinking about evolution. Especially how scientists look at altruism and say it cannot be wise. It cannot ensure survival. So I said as humans we must be beyond it. We must be post-evolution. I remember how you scoffed. “Please.” You placed your palms on the table. “Animals who live collectively exhibit altruism. They value the continuance of their community over their individual lives.” 

I just never fully understood. The whole point of being a medic is to combat natural selection. To give the injured or weak a chance to thrive, by “cheating” nature, I guess. Our research always had the goal of thwarting death’s inheritance by optimizing strengths and negating weaknesses. You tainted me, though, you know. It never leaves my mind.

But today: was it the eternal wisdom of natural selection? You trust it more than I do. Is this the best way? You preserved my position, my voice. But if we’d both fallen, we’d still have our partnership. You gambled so much on the good I could do alone. In the field, the medic may be tempted to martyr themselves for a member of their team. It’s their job. But there’s a reason the enemy attempts to single out the medic. Once they’re destroyed, the team is doomed. You cite how the drones are altruistic for their queen, but the queen herself, the insurance of life for the colony, cannot be altruistic, or all will fall prey to natural selection. These are the basics, Moira.

I guess we’re in an argument as to the identity of the queen, but our whole risk was borne on one concept. I remember how you lit up when I asked you about your project. The medic who is able to strike back. Who’s able to intimidate the enemies into standing back. Or who can even flee seamlessly when cornered.

You had said it almost as if you’d rehearsed it: “Well, as you know, I was musing about how, in your work, you’ve striven to optimize the electron transport chain both to facilitate healing and maximize damage potential, but what if the same method could be employed to do the opposite?”

I could not hide my intrigue. “So it’s destructive?”

“Yes. So it wouldn’t be for clinical services but rather for—“

“—a weapon.” 

Your eyes glittered. “Countless weapons have been developed by Overwatch. I think this would incredibly useful to add to their assets. A tremendous weakness of their current setup is that their support, as she is now, has very limited ability to defend herself. What if she were the last remaining operative in a mission? Think for yourself. Don’t just blindly follow the salutes they make you rattle off.”

I smiled, cutting my eyes. “You don’t need to tell me twice.”

x-x-x-x-x

So there we were, intent on a wilting flower, mesmerized by its slow death. The violet haze kissed it, and its petals wept and browned. Then you turned and applied the healing stream and the stem stood again, firmness returning to the petals, the color brightening.

I was exhilarated: I couldn’t wait to see this technology used on something able to cause damage, to see all the effects it had! “We need to make it more portable and potent, though, than just a mist. If we could concentrate it into a beam like the Caduceus staff….” 

You saw the stars in my eyes and laughed gently. “I think if I tweak it somewhat, I can preserve the power that it seeps away, using it to drive the synthase. Potentially the user could use the improved gradient for personal healing power.”

When you talk like this, a magnet draws me to you. “We just need to make it more portable. And rather than release of mist it needs to have a more conscious impetus.”

“I understand. But on a staff the distance is so far….I haven’t found much success unless it’s direct contact between the beam and the body.”

“A way to release it directly from the user’s body…. But in order to test that….”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “They’re not going to authorize that.”

It was me who said: “Let’s maybe try it out. Just a little. And after hours.”

I had never thought: What of the end? What if I don’t see you as you are now, ever again? I had never imagined the wave crashing against the cliff, hungry, but only to swallow one.

x-x-x-x-x

I remember asking: “Moira, why don’t you show everyone the good side you show me?”

You just laughed. “Angela. I’m always the same. I only have one ‘side’.”

It’s due to the perspectives of those studying you. You’d ignore the cause for panic and simply say: “It’s bias. We’re scientists. I thought we were meant to be objective. But if they have a predetermined fate for me, they will force the data to match.”

It isn’t just about us, and I thought you were the one who didn’t understand that. I didn’t know how bad of a conspirator I was. Everything is a chess game to you. You’re always a step ahead, even for those on your team. I wish I could perceive how your brain flows. I thought I understood you, but maybe I never did. All I know is I was the only person who ever bothered to try.

I wish I could repeat everything. I wish I could know how your words differed from your actions. It’s not fair! I have a privilege but it keeps me from being able to predict the future like you can. You’re a caretaker in that you’re the baker who rises early and switches off the ovens long before I enter, leaving the bread aligned perfectly. I never had to touch it.

Did you plan this all along? It would strike me but I would not be surprised. I cannot imagine you making such a costly decision in the heat of the moment. But you’re both the most methodical and the most impulsive person I know.

They told me that I’m on the good side. That I’m in the better place. Sure, there’s less red ink, but you earned a bizarre freedom out from under this organization’s thumb. I’m trapped on a talk show here, throbbing smile, while you can dig and dig into your passion with little scrutiny. Blackwatch is actually in the fray while I feel I sit on the sidelines. It’s ironic. I’m thankful you haven’t been sent away, but this precedent petrifies me. Your face is supposed to be here hanging over me, not haunting my dreams. 

Sometimes I wish we’d been struck down together, in that strange romance of two pilots spiraling, cradled in the intimacy of the understanding we’re both doomed to a disappearance at sea. But instead I’m the wife at home at the window, wondering if the tendrils if smoke were you, wishing death upon somebody else’s beloved instead. Even though you won’t be leaving, there’s still a wall drawn up between us, like looking at each other through a pane of glass. Your voice is muffled, though I get to see your face.

I’m infuriated at your act of selflessness. You make me want to swear off anything questionable, though I wouldn’t know where to start. No matter what I’m deluded into thinking, the gray haze coats my whole life. You make me want to paint over every flaw, mend my cracked foundation. But you also make me want to stand up and condemn them. You make me want to avenge that lost potential, even if I cross those sacred boundaries and dirty my hands. You and your duality. I can’t stand it.

x-x-x-x-x

You just looked at me, waiting to see what I’d do. A strange vulnerability revealed itself in your eyes, even beyond the haughty façade you attempted to uphold.

I was suddenly at a loss for words. Your demeanor was in character but your actions had not been.

You could sense my frustration as it leaked out through how I bit my lip. Through how I clenched and reclenched my fists. Then to my dismay, tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.

“Oh Angela….” You softened, almost smiling. You were the goddess this time, descending from above, concealing the arrows embedded in your back. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just being reassigned. Blackwatch needs a medic anyway.” I didn’t see it at the time, but you were hiding your hands from me.

I was so angry at your composure. “But, Moira….it’s a  _ lie _ . You don’t deserve them to think that of you.”

Then you laughed. You  _ laughed. _ “I’m not sure about that. If it’s between the two of us, defaming both seems like such a waste.”

I was speechless again. I wanted to write an oath to you but my voice was trapped in my throat. You cupped my face in your left hand, gently brushing your fingers against my cheek. I shut my eyes and leaned into your touch. You could feel my tears against your palm. Thus you laid down your sword, and I knew I couldn’t place it back in your hand. So I picked it up.

You gently twirled one of my curls between your fingers. “It’s just a slap on the wrist, Angela. What’s the worst that could happen?”

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on twitter @fallofield!


End file.
